Color of Vengeance
by ParadoxicalOne
Summary: [Shoot] More confidence now than when she had found herself faltering hours before. She discovered her footing and strode with a self-assurance she hadn't felt in days. A gun in each hand and a feral smile on her lips, she felt renewed, at peace, at home.


_Disclaimer_ : Mistakes and ramblings are mine, all mine. Characters aren't. I'm broke. Don't sue.

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 **A/N** : This took longer to write than you can probably imagine. Okay, not that long, but longer than it should've considering the length. Anyway, this was something I've had in my head for a while, and it was harder to put into words than I thought it would be. It took me to places in my psyche I probably shouldn't have gone and yet needed to. There's so much more I wanted to say, but I didn't want to muddy it. I hope it got the point across.

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Color of Vengeance

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Red raw. Blood red. Oozing, dripping, running, flowing. Obscuring her hands. Sanguine stumps capable of so much damage. Carnage, the one action that was always absolute. Damage and destruction. Death and utter devastation. Everything fire and ashes in their wake. The world in decay, her hands the weapon of choice.

Red lines. Blood red. Streaking, straining, flashing, raging. Disguising her face. Crimson hues cloaking the beauty behind. War paint the color of scarlet lining almost every inch of pale. Burgundy splotches spattering the rest. Warrior, soldier, combatant, grim reaper. A vengeful angel dressed as a merciful demon.

Black pools. Murky depths. Shadowing, drowning, sinking, perishing. Darkness encompassing hazel orbs. Hollow and deep, full of emptiness. Unyielding wrath skilled at dealing deadly daggers. Scalpels and blades. Razors and sharp edges. Anything living turned dead – raw, bare, and bloody. Everything cut and shredded that came within her field of vision.

Orange tint. Deliberate flames. Combusting, burning, searing, charring. Small wisps of fire everywhere. Tendrils of copper with coral and blond curling and licking at her feet, ankles, legs. Her creation, her contribution to the war threatening to gradually, leisurely consume her. Expanding, spreading, reaching to devour every scrap of earth until it's all scorched.

Gray fragments. Opaque memories. Blurring, distorting, clouding, smudging. Losing their emphasis. Gradually, progressively focus pulls clear lines away to leave vague recollections. Full-color images of times past, darkening, fraying around the edges and altering with time. All parading away with hope hand in hand.

Slowly, her eyelids close. Heavy breaths fill the small space. The sound enough to drown her. The walls about to collapse. Heartbeat like a hammer in her head. Boots of an army trampling down the lone seedling in the desert. War and apocalypse vying for dominance of peace and the promise of new life.

Movement, slow and precise. Hands and arms snaking around her midsection. A small and almost tangible tether to the world. Oh, those arms are her vise. They ground her, they hold her firm in times she feels her own legs unsteady on the ground. Oh, those arms are her vice. They make her weak, they tear her armor away and leave her torn and ragged and unwound.

Body like steel resting on her back. "It's okay," whispered behind her, intended for her ear only. These little moments that are hers … theirs. They are all she has to keep her going. She wants to believe that it had been, is, and would be okay. Somehow, she felt that 'okay' was never enough, not a big enough word for her to use, that it should be more meaningful. But, a life like theirs, maybe okay was all they could ever hope for. Maybe it was all she would ever dream of. Maybe it was even too much.

Slowly, begrudgingly, she opened her eyes. A gentle, painful breath escaped her lungs. Like a whisper, the arms were gone. But along with that, so were the demons. The ghosts. For mere seconds, she felt humanness envelope her. It was warm and peaceful. It was raw and painful.

She drew her eyes from the sink to the mirror. She was who she is, as she always was. Pale skin and eyes a mix of brown and green. Long, thin fingers resting on smooth porcelain. A gentle reminder of who she is underneath, of who she could be again when the time is right. Until then, she knows what she has to do, who she has to be, what she had to become … again.

When the mission is over, she can take the time for self-reflection. She can wonder about the price she is paying. She can consider if it is right or wrong. She can weigh the good and the bad and see which one is heavier. Reformed killer chooses willingly to unequivocally slaughter everyone who stands in the way, cutting a wide swath across the population in search of one person. The path is clear. It will be a massacre of unprecedented proportions by an obligatory and de facto executioner.

When her quest is finished, she can study herself and the guilt that's equally weighing her down and propelling her forward. She can beg for forgiveness that may never come. She can hope of absolution in the form of chocolate eyes and a frown. She can dream of making all the right choices in the future and not letting a moment go to waste.

When her objective is complete, she'll take the blame as it's placed. She'll surrender to no one understanding, to no one accepting. She'll concede to the looks of distaste and displeasure. She'll yield to the hate. The one thing that will take longer than that is figuring out who will hate her more – herself or them or Her or … the one she's doing it for.

"I'm going to find you, Sameen," she breathed resolutely. A promise to herself that she would see it through until the bitter end. She would give her dying breath if it meant Shaw was safe. It was said to herself, her god, and Shaw. It was said to no one, the only witness a dark, anonymous hotel room that would never betray her secret.

She turned. More confidence now than when she had found herself faltering hours before. She discovered her footing and strode with a self-assurance she hadn't felt in days. A gun in each hand and a feral smile on her lips, she felt renewed, at peace, at home.

No matter where she had been, she knew where she had to go. No matter what she had done, she knew what she had to do. No matter what or who she had been, she knew what and who she needed to be.

Red trails. Bright, sticky, wet, viscous. A sign of purpose, a sign of progress. Root allowed the blood to run freely, a river of it sprawling behind her. There was so much already and so much more to come.

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End.


End file.
